


Fairy Stories

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brothers, Falling out, Fluff, Gen, Kid Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Reconciliation, Storytelling, brief mention of infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 01:36:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1880058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft gave a small smile. It looked out of place on his face, almost shy. “I’ve come to realize that fairy stories are always important.” He swallowed hard and offered a wrapped rectangular package. “Perhaps to us most of all.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairy Stories

**Author's Note:**

> And now for something completely different. I don't do a lot of fluff, but this one made me happy. Thanks to beautifullyheeled and letalkingmime for looking this piece over.
> 
> This piece has now been translated into Chinese! The translation by kiddiecone can be found here: http://0ikid.wordpress.com/2014/07/31/fairy-stories/
> 
> Thanks!

“Not every fairy story has a happy ending. It wasn’t your fault you deduced theirs,” Mycroft said softly.

“She thought she was better off not knowing. You weren’t home to see the signs.” His father’s affair had shocked everyone and torn the entire family apart, not the least of which was due to Sherlock deducing it publicly. At a dinner party, no less. 

“I was sure I wouldn’t have said anything if I had. It would have made all our lives too contentious. Did, in fact. But, they’ve reconciled now. They are doing stupid tourist things and,” he shuddered, “Going to popular musicals. It seems like they are _dating,_ after all these years and, tedious though it may be to contend with, they actually seem happy now."

“Sorry I blamed you for his mistake.” 

There was so much anger and hurt in that afternoon, even in memory it made his chest ache. 

_“Oh, grow up, Sherlock. You know caring is not an advantage. Did you expect life to work out like a fairy story? Not everyone gets happily ever after. Certainly not us. You’re acting like a child, you made Mummy cry.”_

_Sherlock cut him off, “I did? I made her cry? You left us, now he’s left us. Everyone leaves!” Sherlock roared. “Perhaps I should, too, if it is all my fault.” With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and walked out the door._

It had been the beginning of a very dark time, but valuable. Necessary to the work, even. Data he would never otherwise have possessed. Exactly how long he could go without food before it affected his mind or he passed out. Which chemicals made the hurt go away and which simply made it into a gaping howling hole. Important information on the kinds of things that could happen when you were 17, on the street, and didn’t give a toss about anything. Valuable data, all of it. And of course the beginnings of his homeless network and meeting up with Lestrade. He might never even have discovered The Work, if not for this time. So really, his Father’s affair and brother’s anger were, possibly the best things that had happened to him. No matter the cost. 

_But still…_

“In all your insight, all that you deduce, you still missed one crucial piece of information.” 

“Oh really, brother mine?” 

Mycroft gave a small smile. It looked out of place on his face, almost shy. “I’ve come to realize that fairy stories are always important.” He swallowed hard and offered a wrapped rectangular package. “Perhaps to us most of all.” 

It looked professionally wrapped, perfect edges on the plain green paper and a black satin bow tied just so. 

“What’s this, then?” Sherlock looked at the package as if it were a viper. 

“Just open it, Sherlock. If you don’t want it, I’ll keep it. I just thought… you’ll see. Open it.” 

Sherlock took the proffered package gingerly, and unwrapped it, letting the paper flutter to the floor. Inside he found a thick volume, bound in dark green leather with gilded scroll work up the spine and Mycroft’s monogram worked into a small centered design of swirls on the front cover. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he spoke with quiet wonder, looking the volume over attentively, stroking his fingers over the binding. “Aunt Rose gave you this volume for your birthday once. It was blank and at the time I was small enough I couldn’t see why a blank notebook was a present at all.” 

“Open it, Sherlock.” 

He did and gasped at what he saw. In Mycroft’s looping childish handwriting he read  
 _August 24, 1985  
Once upon a time in far off Bangladesh, there lived a Tiger. Not just any Tiger, but the King of all Tigers… _

“The first story,” Sherlock breathed. 

“The first year of them, actually.” Mycroft said as Sherlock began to flip through. 

Many a happy hour had been spent in the family library. Sherlock would stand on tiptoe to reach the large globe and set it spinning, then close his eyes and point, halting the momentum of its twirling dance. Wherever his small finger landed, Mycroft would tell him a tale about that place. Sometimes they were actual histories or fairytales from that land. Other times he drew on his knowledge of geography and politics to spin a tale of his own devising. At times they were just for fun, but they often wove in just what Sherlock needed to hear. Things to make him feel brave when he had been frightened or something cheerful and amusing, drawing him into giggles when he had been sad. Whatever the tale, afterwards, Mycroft would claim that he was tired of games and stories and needed his space. It could be tiresome spending all day with your little brother, Sherlock knew and he rarely begged for more. 

He had never known that day after day, Mycroft would steal away and write such tales down in a great leather volume in his room. 

Sherlock hugged the volume to his chest, looking for all the world as if he had transformed back into the six year old, who would crawl into his brother’s lap for a bedtime story. He closed his eyes against the stinging of tears, which threatened to spill over. Even now, he wouldn’t show how deeply affected he was. It felt childish, sentimental, weak. 

But he did manage, “Thank you, My,” scarcely aware that he used the nickname from so long ago. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’ve started another, but I don’t know how it ends. Perhaps you would care to tell me?” He pulled a volume from under his arm and settled on the low couch, pulling Sherlock down beside him. 

_“Once upon time in the busy city of London, there were two brothers...”_


End file.
